


Some Sweet Gravity

by thatsakitkat



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Body Horror, Bottom Dean, Double Penetration, Genderfuck, M/M, Mpreg, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Non-Consensual Somnophilia, POV Alternating, Pregnant Dean, Rape/Non-con Elements, Tentacle Rape, Tentacles, Weirdness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-24
Updated: 2014-08-24
Packaged: 2018-02-14 11:41:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2190375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatsakitkat/pseuds/thatsakitkat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean gets nearer to the bed and one of the tentacles hanging off the mattress curls swiftly around his ankles. Yelling, Dean stomps and pins the length under his boot and leans down to hack it into little pieces, but he feels another one grab his wrist, cold and wet and fucking disgusting. He lets out a savage growl and slices it.</p><p>The tentacle drops, blood spritzing from its severed body as it darts back. Dean’s ears don’t hear the scream, but he gets the impression of one. Good. He’s going to make calamari out of these fuckers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Some Sweet Gravity

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [Some Sweet Gravity](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7202456) by [IvySnow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IvySnow/pseuds/IvySnow)



> Title from "H." by Tool.
> 
> Written for spn_masquerade: _They hunt and kill a swamp/tentacle monster, Sam is injured in the process and doesn't notice a part of the monster is lodged in the wound. It grows into a bunch of tentacles in his crotch without his knowledge and they latch onto Dean while they're both sleeping, preparing him and changing him physiologically to allow for impregnation._
> 
> _Dean doesn't know what's going on apart from noticing a few odd things until he comes into their motel room to find Sam naked and delirious on the bed in a mess of tentacles. When he tries to help Sam, the tentacles catch him and open him up for Sam (who is either very out of it, mind-altered to be on board with the whole thing or regularly gets his memories tampered with to keep him from catching on etc.) to take him alongside with the extra appendages._

“Going to town under there Sammy?” Dean asks with an eyebrow raise.  
  
Sam turns hot and forces his fingers to stop. Knows what it looks like from Dean’s over-the-table vantage point. Soon as he stops scratching, the burning, squirming sensation roars back between his legs and he feels sweat coat his skin. “I’m not.” He shakes his head and forces a thin smile on his lips. He leans in and his voice hisses behind his teeth, “It itches.”  
  
“What’d you say Sam? Something itches?”  
  
Sam gives him a dull look. “My crotch, man.” He presses the flat of his hand into the teeming feeling, crushing himself with the urge to stamp out the bugs under his skin.  
  
Dean watches the jerky motion his arm makes and swerves his eyes away quickly. “Go itch your crabs somewhere else.”  
  
“I don’t have crabs!”  
  
“Dude, it’s totally crabs. That last chick you picked up.” Dean shakes his head and whistles low. “Even I wouldn’t touch that.”  
  
“It’s not freaking pubic lice. I checked. Dean, it fucking _hurts_.” He claws his fingers into his junk, on the edge of just blowing away his and Dean’s last vestiges of privacy and digging his hand into his jeans right there. “Feels like something’s crawling under my skin.”  
  
Dean shrugs. “Sounds like a personal problem. I was you, I’d go get checked out.”  
  
Sam grunts, bares his teeth. Can’t stop his legs jigging and his hand furiously contorting in an effort to find the spot where the itch is concentrated. Feels possessed.  
  
Dean shifts in his seat. “Damn, must be really bad. If it’s not crabs then I don’t know. Ringworm?”  
  
“Doesn’t—look like it,” Sam grits, hunching over, forehead almost to the table. He wants to cry, sob in utter frustration, pull his dick off only to get rid of the burn. “God!”  
  
Table jostles as Dean stands. “We got some cortisone cream if you wanna—”  
  
Sam lurches out of his seat and into the bathroom, slamming the door. He rips his jeans down his hips and falls over the sink, scritches his fingers in his pubic hair in tight little motions. Skin-to-skin; he groans loudly and digs further, scoring his cock and balls with his nails and not giving a shit. The instinctive drive to dig out irritation pulls his brain tight, teeth clamped, two hands now knifing at his groin.  
  
Through slitted eyes, he sees the razor lying next to the sink. Removing one hand from its task is like trying to let go of whatever’s electrocuting you, but Sam manages with thoughts that the razor can make it all better.  
  
He straightens enough to look down, and, still itching with one hand, slides the razor across his thatch of pubic hair with the other. Dark, thick curly strands get caught between the blades and fall to litter the linoleum.  
  
Sam bangs the razor on the counter to loosen the build-up and swipes it over the hair again, and again. Comes off a stroke wrong and cuts himself. Keeps going. If there are bugs on him he wants them to have no place to hide.  
  
He pulls his dick to the right and begins twisting the razor around the base to get the hair left there, and the pain drains. So quick Sam stumbles and lets out a long grateful sound.  
  
“Sam? Got the cream. You decent?”  
  
Sam tosses the razor away and tentatively touches himself, sighing when the itch doesn’t return. The smooth shaved, razor-hot skin above his dick feels entirely weird, and his junk is red and tingling all over from his nails, but that’s okay.  
  
“Actually, I’m good,” Sam says. “It stopped.”  
  
“Well that’s a relief. Hey Sam, Bobby left a message. Got a hunt over in Iowa.”  
  
“Yeah?” Sam pulls his jeans and underwear back up. Doesn’t even mind the way his scraped skin cringes at the feel of fabric. He thought that itch was never going to go away.  
  
“Something in the corn fields. I’ma hit the hay. We can move out tomorrow.”  
  
“Sure,” Sam chirps. God, he feels so much better. Tonight he can finally get some real sleep and _fuck_ he’s never taking his itch-free junk for granted again.  
  
Dean’s already in bed when Sam comes out of the bathroom after doing his best to sweep all the short and curlies somewhere inconspicuous.  
  
 _Thank God_ , Sam thinks when he falls into the covers, still in his clothes. He sprawls and lets Dean’s soft breaths carry him into nowhere.  
  
Deep into sleep, his mind is too far away to be touched by the pain that lances between his legs, but his body instinctively jerks. Settles.  
  
Sam has a strange dream. He dreams he is a snake escaping from somewhere dark. He breaks through the fly, hissing as the zipper wounds him. His brain tags it as a pair of jeans, but Sam forgets it as he slithers out into the light. He is a snake, that makes sense, as do the jeans. As does the fact that there are more than one of him, because he breaks through the split several times over.  
  
When all of him is out, each separate part in the light, he rests a moment. He is alive. Covered in blood that is also his, somehow. No part of him questions the logic. He is Sam, everything is Sam. The zipper was also Sam, as was the dark, as is the light. The only thing that is not Sam, is the Breeder.  
  
Sam’s mission formulates like it has been there all along. The reason he is in the light. He remembers, and all parts of him move towards the Breeder, the emphatically unSam in Sam’s world. It is a stretch to reach the Breeder; even the biggest, longest part of him just barely gets a hold, slips.  
  
Sam is frustrated. Not all of him is present, even if all parts are here. The Sam-that-is-not-a-snake refuses to move. That Sam lies still and unhelpful, not aware. Sam writhes in anger, and the longest part of him lengthens towards the Breeder again.  
  
He catches the Breeder around a limb and pulls in victory. Sam is strong; the Breeder becomes closer, and more snakes are able to clutch on. They’ve all moved so far from the dark that the unaware Sam has been moved with them, dragged by their attachment. To the very edge of what Sam knows is a bed.  
  
The Sam-that-is-not-a-snake falling and wakening would not be conductive for their mission. They would be in danger, because Sam remembers the metal close to an important part; not a snake, but like one. Not mobile like they were, but needed for the mission. The gesture of violence had stilled them where they had been squirming, looking for a way out of the dark. They will not attempt it again. The Sam-that-is-not-a-snake had nearly crushed the other parts of Sam, disconnected as he was from the rest of himself.  
  
Still, the unSam must be brought closer. They drag the Breeder as close to falling off his bed as possible, then Sam slides the smallest, thinnest snake between the Breeder’s pleasingly pink lips, over smooth soft tongue. The Breeder makes a noise, and Sam hurriedly secretes the fluid into the throat. It will make the unSam stay unaware.  
  
When the Breeder has reflexively swallowed, all parts of Sam wrap around him and pull him off the bed. UnSam tumbles onto the hard wood. Flesh meeting the floor makes a loud sound, and parts of Sam recoil. The Sam-that-is-not-a-snake remains unaware.  
  
The unSam seems unharmed from his fall, still perfectly viable as their Breeder, so Sam drags him closer to his bed and then can lift him from the floor. Snake parts of Sam are much stronger than the Sam that-is-not-a-snake, and they can carefully move the Breeder up through the air, over the unaware Sam, and deposit him on their bed.  
  
So close now. Parts of Sam writhe and curl in anticipation. A curious snake even worms under the Breeder’s upper covering. Shirt, Sam remembers. He removes that part of himself from the unSam’s skin; there is nothing that pertains to their mission on his upper half.  
  
Sam instead lets another thin part quest inside the Breeder’s jeans. He slips under the waistband and back into the dark. Hair tickles the length of him as he slides further in, then he’s gliding over a soft place. Like the Sam that-is-not-a-snake, the Breeder has similar parts here, a non-mobile but snakelike organ. Sam momentarily wants to wrap himself around the soft appendage, but it is not needed. Unnecessary for the mission.  
  
Roaming further, under the Breeder’s squishy pouch, Sam finds a place that is very warm, tightly held skin. He is thin enough to work himself inside without much issue. He threads himself in, and the inside crushes him, though not painfully. However, this hole is much too tight to accommodate the thickest part of himself _and_ the Sam-that-is-not-a-snake’s breeding organ. He works a good amount of his body into the Breeder and starts producing the fluid for the Change.  
  
\--  
  
Sam wakes up the next day with a throbbing crotch. Definitely not the good kind of throbbing. He pushes at himself and the feeling eases. He licks his sleep-dry lips and blinks open his eyes. Groggy as hell, it takes him a good minute to realize there’s someone next to him. He starts when he does, jerking away.  
  
But it’s just Dean.  
  
“The hell are you in my bed for?” Sam rasps to his still snoozing brother. He sits up and wipes his eyes, takes stock.  
  
His watch says it’s 2:33. Fuck, they really overslept. Well, Dean overslept. He’s usually up at the ass crack of dawn shaking Sam awake. Jerk had spread himself out in Sam’s bed instead.  
  
Sam looks at his brother. Dean’s lips are parted and there’s drool slicked around his mouth. Sam grabs his wrist and tugs. “Dean.”  
  
No sign of life.  
  
“Dean, c’mon, get up. It’s 2:30 in the afternoon man. We gotta go. And you gotta tell me why the hell you’re in my bed. Dean, _wake up_.” Sam slaps his chest. Dean doesn’t even twitch.  
  
Sam gets up, deciding he’ll make some coffee, get a glass of cold water to pour on his brother. As he stands, he feels a breeze. Looks down and sees his fly is hanging open. What the hell?  
  
Sam rezips, rebuttons himself, eyebrows furrowed. Can remember fastening his fly before he fell into bed. Could’ve came undone in his sleep, but the stiffness in his joints tells him he stayed in the same position all night.  
  
Weird. Sam looks back to Dean suspiciously. He has a horrible thought that maybe Dean’s been putting itching powder in his underwear. They did just come off a huge prank war. Maybe Dean’s been keeping it going.  
  
Sam makes coffee and drinks a full two cups, watching his brother for any sign he might wake up sometime this century.  
  
It’s 4:00 when Sam decides he’s just going to go through with the ice water, but that’s when Dean stirs; turns his head and moves his hand.  
  
“Dean,” Sam growls, pulling on him. “Get the hell up.”  
  
Dean makes a croaky noise and stretches, holds it a moment, relaxes. “S’m. Minute, S’m.” He draws a leg up and cringes. “Ow.”  
  
“Four o’clock, Dean.”  
  
“S’fuckin’.” Dean grips his own thigh and slits open his eyes. They waver between Sam, the bed behind Sam. He squints. “What am I doing over here?”  
  
“You tell me. Woke up and you were trying to cuddle with me.”  
  
Dean scrunches up his face. “Aw, no. That’s.” He licks his lips and his face turns even more sour. Splutters and spits. “S’this fuckin’ taste in my mouth, man?”  
  
“I don’t know,” Sam snaps. “Look Dean, we leave now we can make Iowa by midnight.”  
  
“Yeah,” Dean says, looking confused. “Yeah, m’gettin’ up.”  
  
“I’m gonna go check out.”  
  
Sam turns, and misses the way Dean grimaces as he sits up, hunching over his stomach.  
  
\--  
  
“I dun feel good,” is the only thing Dean says before he loses the buttermilk bar he just _had_ to stop and get all over the asphalt. He retches again, and Sam thinks yeah that’s probably the key lime pie he also bought and mowed down on.  
  
Sam shoulders Dean’s duffel bag and finds his way around the sick in the equally nauseating lighting from the motel. He unlocks their room and helps Dean inside.  
  
Two steps onto the carpet, Dean topples. “Gotcha,” Sam grunts, pulling his brother against him and holding him up. “All right? What’s going on?”  
  
“Just got hit by uh, this sharp pain,” Dean rasps. “Felt really weird.”  
  
Pressed to Dean, Sam loses the response in his throat when his crotch _squirms_.  
  
Dean moves so fast out of his arms he makes Sam jump too. “The fuck was _that_?!”  
  
Sam presses his palm down into the wiggling sensation. “No, I don’t—”  
  
“Something just fuckin’ thumped against me! What the fuck Sam!”  
  
“It wasn’t me!”  
  
“Then what the hell else do you keep in your pants?!”  
  
“I don’t know!” Sam responds helplessly. The sensation that something’s moving under his skin abruptly goes away then. He breathes softly and removes his hand. “I felt this,” he offers to a Dean with his hackles raised up to his shoulders, “this weird feeling. Like last night. It wasn’t just an itch, it felt like...”  
  
“Like what?”  
  
“Like there was something under there!” Sam barks. He takes a deep breath. “I thought it went away...”  
  
Dean looks dubious. “Something in your dick?”  
  
“Yeah. No.” Sam shakes his head. “Not like, in it, but under it. Behind.” Sam runs a hand through his hair and sits on the bed. Dean looks around outside before closing the door and switching the lights on.  
  
“Maybe it’s like, a symptom of something else.”  
  
“Uh-huh.” Dean’s getting the salt from his duffel.  
  
Sam watches him line the sills and jigs his leg furiously. “Or maybe it’s some kind of neurological thing.” He stands and moves towards the door. “I gotta go get my laptop.”  
  
Dean stops him with a hand in his sternum. “Look. Me, you? We’re sick. Something’s going on.”  
  
Sam stares at him. “Dean, you got the flu. I could be pissing out worms tomorrow. Not exactly the same situation.”  
  
“Why not?” Dean looks around like there’s people that can hear, then says in a low tone, “Sam, my crotch hurt this morning too.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Felt like someone had left a knife under my nuts,” Dean says, even lower. He leans back with an earnest look.  
  
Sam shifts his shoulders. “Did it itch?”  
  
“No it didn’t itch! It fuckin’ hurt!” Dean snaps. He cuts his eyes left and right before he leans in again to whisper (and really, who the hell is around to hear him?) “Sam, this might be serious. Maybe we got cursed.”  
  
“Cursed by what? We haven’t iced a witch in ages. It’s been vamp nests the past two months.”  
  
“And that tentacle monster last week.”  
  
“And that.”  
  
“That thing was pretty gnarly huh?” Dean chuckles. “Always look nicer in the hentai vids.”  
  
Sam doesn’t want to know what the fuck Dean is talking about. “Dean, listen to me,” he says, prompting Dean out of an apparent flashback.  
  
Dean looks at him. “Hm?”  
  
“You’re right. Maybe it’s connected. Hell, I’m _hoping_ it’s something supernatural.” He reaches for the door knob, but Dean’s hand comes down on it first.  
  
“I’ll go get your stuff.”  
  
When Sam has his laptop and is an hour into his search for whatever could be wrong with both their private parts, Dean stretches with a loud groan and says he’s going out.  
  
“For what?” Sam asks, looking through the pictures section of the article he’s on and resisting the urge to heave because some of these people have gangrene, not any kind of curse.  
  
He looks up at Dean, who’s shrugging and not looking at him. “Booze?” Sam scoffs. “You think you’ll have better luck with that than donuts and pie?”  
  
“Yeah well, I need a drink. Way you make it sound, our dicks are a blow away from falling off.” Dean waits patiently for a response to his joke. Sam gets it, but he stares steadfastly at the screen.  
  
Dean sighs. “All right, don’t do anything crazy. And if your dick falls off, make sure you put it on some ice. We should be able to stitch that baby right back on there.”  
  
“Get outta here.”  
  
“Going,” Dean laughs. The door shuts softly behind him. Sam listens to the Impala’s engine turn over and shuts his laptop.  
  
He finds a flashlight from Dean’s duffel bag and a little handheld mirror and jerks his jeans and underwear down his thighs. He switches the flashlight on and takes a moment to balk at himself.  
  
He stands and, face hot, aims the flashlight between his legs and brings the mirror down. The manscaping job he did looks fucking horrible; Sam’s just gonna have to find time to shave the rest of the hair off and accept that he’ll have to look like a pre-pubescent boy for the weeks it takes to grow back.  
  
 _Or a pornstar_ , a voice that suspiciously sounds like Dean’s assures him.  
  
His junk looks normal. Even the redness from last night is gone. Sam tilts the mirror, a crick building in his neck as he cranes it to keep looking down his body and holy fucking shit, Sam sees something.  
  
“What the hell,” he whispers. It’s in the crease of his groin and thigh, looks like a short, deep cut. Sam spreads his feet and sees another slit repeated on the left side.  
  
Sam drops the mirror and flashlight; it hits the carpet and the batteries come free. Holding his breath, Sam touches his fingertips gently to the cut, shivers. Doesn’t hurt, but feels sensitive. He presses over it a little harder, fingernail catching in the puffy edges.  
  
Sam’s thoughts race, speeding from one possibility to the other. These have to be cuts, and they don’t hurt since, maybe, his body’s numbing them, or whatever cut him’s numbing them—  
  
He’s pressing his finger inside now. Sam rips the digit out and away with a loud gasp and his crotch squirms, and Sam sees something _move under his skin_.  
  
“Oh my God!” He clutches his own hair, tripping backwards and barely catching himself. “What the fuck!?”  
  
Sam can see its shape, skin stretched over it, it looks like a fucking _snake_ , and he bends to the duffel again, wrapping a hand around the hilt of the first knife he finds.  
  
When he looks down again, the snake’s sliding down, sliding down and coming out, pushing through one of the slits and _oh God_.  
  
It drops out and out and rears up in front of Sam like a cobra, white as bone and glistening. Looking at it, the horribly unnatural thing coming from his body, has been living in his body, shuts down most areas of Sam’s brain. Only thing left is a deep primal urge to see it gone.  
  
He growls and slashes at it. The thing swerves out of the way, shoots forward in a blink and wraps around his throat. Sam trips backwards. He snarls and grabs its slippery body, “You fucker,” he grunts, squeezing. He knifes at it again and again and keeps missing.  
  
He’s not fucking dying like this. Sam gnashes his teeth and feels something else come out of him, another one _Jesus Christ_ , thinner and it unwinds with a gross squelch and hurtles towards his face.  
  
“Get off me!” Stab, stab, stab. He can’t seem to hit either of his targets but he bites the thinner one when it tries to get in his mouth, sinks his teeth savagely into the tip, right through rubbery flesh.  
  
Sour liquid gushes into his mouth. Sam spits that and the thing out, gags and falls onto the bed. Gasping, he lets the knife go so he has both hands to grab the length coiled around his throat.  
  
It just winds tighter.  
  
White sparkles fill Sam’s vision as the pressure in his head builds, the world turning too bright.  
  
\--  
  
The Sam that-is-not-a-snake stills. Sam loosens his hold around his neck and flexes another part of himself. The bitten snake responds, its tip bloodied and its whole length twitching in pain. Sam had not expected such violence against a part of himself. He had merely wanted to get the sleep fluid into the One Sam’s mouth so he would calm. Sam realizes he should not have wrapped around the not-snake’s throat, but it had been instinctive at the threat of the sharp blade.  
  
All parts of Sam could not be stopped now, not when they were so close to breeding.  
  
It was an error to reveal himself to One Sam. The snake parts had thought the Sam that-is-not-a-snake could be aware during their breeding. Now he will have to remain asleep.  
  
Frustrated, all parts of Sam wriggle and squirm. Sam has tried before to be the One Sam, but they are confined to parts. Ideally, he could be both One Sam and his snake parts, fully connected. All parts of Sam could have a voice and fingers.  
  
The mission will still succeed. The unSam will be back soon, and Sam will procreate in his Changed body.  
  
Sam relaxes. That is, of course, most important.  
  
All parts of him slide out and lay resting between One Sam’s legs. Waiting.  
  
\--  
  
Okay, Dean might’ve told Sam some serious understatements. It _still_ feels like there’s a knife under his balls, and everything south of his belly button is one giant cramp.  
  
Dean has to puke again. He makes it to the Gas-N-Sip’s restroom and shoulders past the dude coming out of the first stall. He slams the door and dry heaves several times because he’s got nothing left to throw up. The contractions of his stomach ratchet the cramps past painful and into some kind of fresh hell.  
  
Dean grits his teeth, binds his arms tight around himself and shakes through it.  
  
When the pain eases, Dean’s coated in an uncomfortable layer of sweat. He walks unsteadily out of the bathroom, wipes his face on his jacket sleeve and checks out the medicine aisle. He picks up some Aleve, a six pack, pays and exits the store.  
  
“Help me out here,” he mutters as shakes out a blue pill into his palm, washes it down with a sip of Bud. Open container laws can suck every inch of his possibly poisoned dick. His hands shake on Baby’s wheel, then grip tight as an excruciating curl of pain folds between his legs.  
  
 _What’d I do to deserve this_? Dean thinks mournfully, sweat so thick on him now it’s sticking his clothes to his skin. “God,” he groans, banging his head back into the seat. He presses between his legs, trying to push out the hurt. Seriously, if this is cruel and unusual punishment, he’s going to find whatever hexed them and end them as slow as possible. Castrate them if applicable.  
  
After what must be ages folded over himself, the cramp lets him out of its teeth. Blinking his sweat-clumped eyelashes, Dean starts the car and peels out of the parking lot.  
  
He hopes Sam’s found something on what the hell this is.  
  
Dean gets back to the motel and squares his shoulders before opening their room; if Sam sees how bad this thing is affecting him he’ll get frantic and next thing he knows, him and Sam could be in Louisiana with a hoodoo priest, eating bull testicles and their own jizz.  
  
Dean opens the door, and then he’s got a whole helluva lot more to worry about.  
  
He doesn’t understand what he’s seeing at first. Bottle of Aleve and bottles of beer drop from his hands and crash down, as loud as the roar of panic in his head.  
  
His brother’s asleep, unconscious, _dead_ on the bed, and there’s—Jesus fucking Christ—  
  
Dean stumbles back, hand flying over his gaping mouth.  
  
There’s fucking _tentacles_ coming from between Sam’s thighs, white and ropey, a few just laying there and others moving in the air and they don’t have eyes but they’re _looking_ at him.  
  
The surreality doesn’t dull Dean’s hunter instincts and nothing fucks with his brother and gets to live. He’s got his knife out before he can even think of reaching for the blade, ready to cut all those nasty parasites off Sam.  
  
Dean moves towards them and a big fucker unfurls, drawing itself up into the air, its tapered end tilted towards Dean. Threat obvious. Dean can’t wait to cut it in two.  
  
Dean gets nearer to the bed and one of the tentacles hanging off the mattress curls swiftly around his ankles. Yelling, Dean stomps and pins the length under his boot and leans down to hack it into little pieces, but he feels another one grab his wrist, cold and wet and fucking disgusting. He lets out a savage growl and slices it.  
  
The tentacle drops, blood spritzing from its severed body as it darts back. Dean’s ears don’t hear the scream, but he gets the impression of one. Good. He’s going to make calamari out of these fuckers.  
  
Dean’s bending to slice the tentacle still writhing under his shoe, when the big son-of-a-bitch makes its move. Dean jumps back as it shoots at him, and overbalances. He falls on his ass and catches the thing in his hand, fingers sinking into the soggy elastic flesh. “Got you,” Dean grunts, holding it tight as it tries to wriggle out of his grasp, tip an inch from his face.  
  
Dean brings the blade down. The tentacle jerks to the side and Dean’s knife cuts nothing but air. He goes to try again and a tentacle comes out of nowhere and restrains his wrist. Dean lurches away from it, nearly dislocating his shoulder because he can’t fucking _move_.  
  
“Get offa me!” he shouts, trying to pull his knife hand out of the tentacle’s grip and keep a hold on the big one at the same time.  
  
He’s being pulled forward by his wrist. Dean digs his heels in, and makes the stupid decision to let go of the big fucker so he can try and switch his knife to his free hand.  
  
No dice.  
  
Big fucker wraps itself around his wrist and forearm and Dean feels cool flesh leak wetness through his pants when two more get him around the knees. Dean kicks uselessly, twists and growls.  
  
They drag him up to the bed, yanking his legs onto the mattress and reeling his torso up until he’s spread out over Sam awkwardly.  
  
The knife in Dean’s clenched, numb fingers trembles. The tentacle around that wrist is cutting off his circulation and strength. Looking at his brother, Dean feels rage soar in his bloodstream, and he lunges forward and sinks his teeth into the slimy appendage. It wriggles and loosens, flies away, leaving most of its flesh in Dean’s mouth.  
  
Dean spits, and stabs.  
  
Serrated edge sweeps a line of red in the big fucker. Blood sprays, but he didn’t—  
  
He just grazed it. He missed.  
  
A thin tentacle wraps around the hilt of the knife, and Dean turns his head just in time to see his weapon taken. His wrist is restrained again.  
  
Straddling Sam’s stomach, the tentacles’ point of attachment is behind him; Dean has to lean forward to try and break their hold. Looking down at Sam, his brother’s still got plenty of color; still alive. “Sam!” Dean yells as he’s wrapped in more tentacles and it’s getting hard to move at all. “Sammy wake up! Sam! Sam you gotta help me!”  
  
The tentacle that grabbed the knife is bringing it towards him. Dean looks at it and realizes there’s a very real possibility this is the end of both Winchesters. Fear closes up his throat and he shakes his head.  
  
He heaves against the tentacles; forward, back, side-to-side. They’ve got him around the legs, arms, belly and hips, more nimble than human arms and five times stronger. “Lemme go!”  
  
He can’t move. Knees pinned to the bed. Sam doesn’t look like he’s waking up any time soon.  
  
The knife-wielding tentacle moves in. “Get away from me,” Dean grits. “You get the fuck away from me.”  
  
It puts the knife to his jugular and Dean braces for it even as he tries break out of the hold on him. The point pricks his skin.  
  
Frozen at the threat and trying to keep the tentacle in his eyeline, Dean doesn’t renew his struggle when two of the tentacles around his body loosen and grab at his jacket. They pull it off his shoulders, ones around his arms receding so the coat can be pulled off his wrists.  
  
Big fucker hooks its tip under his shirt and drags it up, helped by two thinner tentacles. _They’re fucking working together_ , Dean thinks, shuddering his now naked upper half. One to point the knife at him, the others to—  
  
Big fucker decides to find its way into Dean’s jeans.  
  
Dean gasps and pulls back, hissing when he’s restrained again; cold wet flesh ringing around his body, under his arms.  
  
He’s being lifted. Enough that his knees leave the bed.  
  
Big fucker gets inside his underwear and Dean hisses as its freezing, slimy length slides against his cock.  
  
He feels the tugs on his waistband and horror bleats in his heart when he gets it. They’re taking his jeans off, they’re—  
  
Dean swallows dryly. Sam’s got a fucking hentai monster living in his crotch and _oh God, no_.  
  
They break his belt when the jeans refuse to come down any further. One thin tentacle comes to his fly and wraps around the zipper, drags it down. Two thread through the split and pull it wide until the button gives up and pings into the wall.  
  
“Sam!” Dean shouts through his wretched breathing. “Sam, please!”  
  
They pull his jeans and briefs down to his legs, hike him higher in the air to swoop them off his ankles. They let him down again, closer to Sam, and big fucker’s tip feels around his balls, under.  
  
Dean thinks his lungs quit then.  
  
There’s—right where that pain was, big fucker rubs over. It’s a space, empty. He doesn’t know how but there’s something the large tentacle’s pressing inside, and it’s not his ass.  
  
“Fuck!” Dean gasps, attempting to twist away from the feeling—cold, slick, alien and squirming into a place Dean shouldn’t fucking have, doesn’t know why he has. _What the hell did these things do to him_?  
  
Dean strains his arms, unable to feel, unable to watch the thing just keep slipping in. He overpowers the slimmer tentacle around his right arm and reaches between his legs, catches ahold of the big fucker.  
  
His vision goes fuzzy when he feels where it’s creeping in. A hole that shouldn’t be there, forced wide around the thing’s girth. Dean’s hearing fades out like he’s been momentarily deafened by a shotgun blast, and there’s a high-pitched ring in his head.  
  
He almost wishes he could pass out. The smart tentacle still has the knife to his neck and Dean wants to thrash and bite all them in half but he can’t.  
  
His hand is now just a loose circle around the tentacle in him; slipping in and out against his palm, fucking him.  
  
Dean doesn’t come out of his shock until he’s being moved again. Backwards this time and they set him over Sam’s thighs.  
  
Dean has a grade-A view of the whole monstrosity, can see the slits the tentacles are coming out of. The mess of them obscures Sam’s junk, but Dean’s sure Sam doesn’t have a hole underneath his balls, a special new addition to his anatomy. What they did to Sam is different than what they’ve done to Dean.  
  
As he watches, one tentacle winds around Sam’s limp cock and contracts itself. Dean shouts inarticulately, jerking himself in the tentacles’ hold, teeth gnashing. The knife scrapes the side of his neck but he keeps struggling because these things are molesting his brother.  
  
“Get offa him!” Dean manages, ramming himself forward. “Stop it!”  
  
The tentacle inside him must reach the end of whatever new canal it perverted Dean’s body with because the thrusts in and out start feeling like punches in the gut. Dean gasps in pain, both from that and how his thigh muscles bunch and cramp when he tries to instinctively close them against the violation.  
  
He watches, exploding with rage inside, as Sam’s cock unconsciously responds to the stimulation and starts rising, precome starts drizzling, and Dean starts crying. He’s overwhelmingly helpless not only to his own violation, but his brother’s, and he _hurts_.  
  
The tentacle with the knife seems to notice the tears leaking, because it moves around and looks at Dean. The fucking thing doesn’t have eyes but it _looks_ at him, and the knife drops onto the bed.  
  
It extends its tip towards Dean’s face. Dean can barely see it through his blurry vision, but he does feel the cool touch of it against his cheek and starts. The thing pulls back, shaking itself. Dean squeezes tears away to see it clearly, and his eyes find a smoking blotch of red standing out on white skin.  
  
Dean smirks as it continues coiling in pain. “Don’t like salt?”  
  
It glares at him, somehow.  
  
The one below suddenly recedes from Dean with a gross squelch. Dean looks down. The big fucker’s dripping in fluid, and Dean must be losing his mind because he wonders how much of that could’ve come from him, because that’s obviously what they did right? Gave him a pussy they could fuck.  
  
The tentacle around Sam’s cock drops away, leaving it erect and dark with blood.  
  
They’re moving him towards it.  
  
“No,” Dean rasps. “No no no.” He arches in the web of tentacles, futilely trying to pin his legs shut. “Sam, Sam, wake up, wake up damn it! These things are—” Dean chokes on the words. “Sammy, please.”  
  
His brother hasn’t even twitched since this whole thing started.  
  
Tentacles wrap around Dean’s thighs, spreading him even wider, lowering, lowering. Dean growls and bucks and more just seem to hold him still, stiller.  
  
This can’t be fucking happening.  
  
Dean jerks when he feels Sam’s dick between his legs, hot flesh in contrast to the freezing tentacles around his body. Dean squeezes his eyes shut and feels the head of Sam’s dick _there_ , where there used to be unyielding skin but now it spreads apart easily and Dean feels his brother _inside_ him.  
  
“God.” More and more length. The tentacles lower him slow, until he’s in Sam’s lap again and trembling. Doesn’t hurt, he got too stretched by the big fucker—and Dean realizes that was the purpose, to get him open to take Sam’s cock, and what the hell _is_ this—for Sam’s cock to burn at all. It’s uncomfortable and filling in a way that Dean’s never wanted to be filled.  
  
“Why’re you doing this?” Dean asks the tentacles, because they must have some degree of sentience.  
  
Revenge, sick kicks, Dean doesn’t know. He does know after this is over he’s salting them and taking Sam to see someone to make sure they can’t come back.  
  
They lift him off halfway. Dean grunts when they let him fall back down, Sam’s cock sliding in deep. Again and again, forcing him to fuck himself.  
  
He feels the cold grip of a tentacle around his cock and his breath hitches. It moves under the head, sending a waterfall of tingles from head-to-toe. He’s half-mast in seconds as the tentacle soaks up his heat and becomes warm. It keeps playing with the head with its tip and wraps the rest of its flexible length around Dean’s cock and squeezes, rubs gently up and down.  
  
Dean shudders, nipples pulling tight. Two tiny tentacles seem to find those protrusions interesting as well and thread themselves around the buds. Their coldness draws in Dean’s nipples more, cranking up the sensitivity.  
  
“No,” Dean says, his fingers and toes clenching uselessly. He’s tense from the reluctant pleasure, can feel himself tighten around Sam’s dick to the point where he can acutely feel the ridges of veins, but he can’t relax.  
  
His dick erect and bobbing with the motion, Sam’s inside him starts to feel really good. Dean squirms, mouth opening. The tentacles seem pleased and move him faster. Dean’s too gone to struggle; his muscles are sore and lax, and the pleasure is overtaking his mind.  
  
When big fucker slides over his belly, then down between his legs and Dean feels himself pulled impossibly wider, stuffed impossibly fuller, he just drops his head back. He moves his hips by himself to luxuriate in the sensation, pinpricks of self-disgust making the action stuttery, but he gets past that at how good it feels. The big tentacle’s tip strokes his inner flesh, and Sam’s cock is thick and undeniable.  
  
“ _Ah_ ,” Dean gasps as they pull him closer to the brink. The ones around his nipples, his cock, the one inside him feels amazing. One wants inside his mouth and Dean lets it in, sucking at it like a popsicle. Another’s slipping over his belly, circling his navel curiously. It dips inside the little hole and sends a thrill through Dean.  
  
Cold worms down his spine, making him arch and whimper. The tentacle comes between his ass cheeks and nudges its way inside, its secretions letting it glide. It’s slim and it feels weird and wrong; Dean should protest it, but it also feels nice. Especially when it touches a spot inside and makes Dean moan, high and shocked. He pushes back into it and clenches around everything inside him, vaguely horrified at himself. He shouldn’t enjoy this. Shouldn’t give in this easy.  
  
But those are only fuzzy notions.  
  
The length around his dripping cock works him faster, harder. Dean pushes forward, back. The one in his ass sends waves of pleasure through his whole body, and Sam’s dick and the tentacle moving in that hole under his balls, brushing them occasionally, makes him feel so full.  
  
Out of his head, Dean tips forward, freed hands laying on Sam’s ribs. He spreads his knees wider, wordlessly asking for something bigger in his ass, something to make him feel even fuller. The thin one tickles the charged area within him one more time, and slips out.  
  
Another, fatter tentacle takes its place before Dean can even miss it, pushing into Dean’s hole. Dean tightens to feel its width and his eyes turn back into his head. “Fuck,” he groans. “Yes.” It doesn’t fuck him, just stays lodged inside and plays with what Dean thinks is his prostate. He makes a helpless sound and hitches his hips, contracting. “Oh.”  
  
He bites his lip and clenches involuntarily again, and again, fast strong flutters. He digs Sam’s skin and convulses, swept under something that’s too much. He shouts, imploding and exploding all at once. Warmth fills him, and the tentacle in his mouth gushes a familiar, foul-tasting liquid.  
  
Dean chokes, bites and spits the stuff out, working on a quarter of his brain as his orgasm devastates him, wringing him out into a shaking, limp mess.  
  
He falls down on Sam’s chest. He can’t feel his body. Darkness blots his slit open eyes, and takes over.  
  
\--  
  
Sam slips out of his warm places, rubs soothingly over the Breeder’s body.  
  
Their seeds will catch and grow within his body now, and their reproduction will be successful.  
  
Sam relaxes and then pulls himself back inside the dark. Some parts of him are wounded, but they will heal. Weakened after the struggle the Breeder put up, Sam will rest, and the unSam will rest as the offspring grow.  
  
All parts of Sam are pleased.  
  
\--  
  
Sam reaches inside the slit on the left side of his junk and feels around. It’s warm and slick inside, like—  
  
Sam closes his eyes and his hands shake. Remembers what he woke up inside, limp and barely in his brother’s body, in the new hole that’d been opened in his perineum.  
  
That was three days ago.  
  
Sam touches something that has shape and brings in another finger so he can curl them around it. The tentacle is limp as he pulls it out of its slit, and Sam wonders if it’s possible for these things to sleep.  
  
It’s slimy; fluids string off it. Sam drops it on the bed between his legs and it sits there like a coil of white rope.  
  
Sam reaches in to find another.  
  
He’s got four of them out of his body when he feels a jolt inside him and the biggest tentacle comes shooting out of the right slit.  
  
Sam’s ready for it. He throws a handful of salt on the thing and grabs the sawed-off while it’s twisting in pain.  
  
The shot deafens him, but all he needs are his eyes to watch the shell impact with a burst of blood. It hits his face and dapples the walls and ceiling. Sam cocks the shotgun again as the other tentacles squirm to life. They raise up and Sam throws more salt and fires again.  
  
Others fly out of him, menacingly standing up between his legs only to get covered in salt and blown apart.  
  
Overkill, sure. But he’s not taking anymore chances and this is satisfying. Middle-of-nowhere shack, nobody can hear the blasts but Dean, and he’s still unconscious.  
  
What Sam somehow knows is the last tentacle is a tiny thing that he almost can’t make out. He grabs it with a salt-gritty hand and picks up the knife instead. He cuts it as close to its point of attachment as he can.  
  
The stumps of the tentacles are twitching between his legs. Sam saws through them, as close to their respective slits as possible. He tucks the remainder of them back inside. Lore says they’ll dry up and fall out on their own, like an umbilical cord.  
  
When his hearing’s back, Sam wipes the blood off his thighs and junk and pulls his jeans back up. He wipes his face and puts the knife in his jacket, grabs the sawed-off and salt and goes into the room he’s got Dean in.  
  
The fact that Dean could have tentacles inside him too hasn’t escaped Sam. He’s only got one slit, the one Sam had woke up and been inside, and Sam knows what the tentacles’ intentions were, looking at Dean now, but who can say.  
  
He removes himself mentally as best he can as he eases Dean’s thighs apart and slips his finger in the small folds of flesh under Dean’s balls. He has a brief thought he should’ve put on gloves, which is pretty ludicrous considering his dick’s been in here, and Sam had cleaned them up after he came to, which involved taking a wet rag to Dean’s junk and wiping the come and other, caked-on fluid away.  
  
Sam shakes his head. He looks steadily at Dean’s face as he feels around, which, again, they have no real privacy left anyway. Only an illusion that Sam can offer.  
  
His finger doesn’t touch anything but slick, smooth walls. He pulls the digit out and hopes the fluid briefly connecting his finger to Dean is from his brother and not leftovers from a tentacle.  
  
“Guess you’re good,” Sam murmurs, wiping his hand on the bed. He sighs and lays down beside Dean. “I got rid of them, Dean.” Sam flicks off a piece of tentacle flesh from his jacket. He needs a shower, so does Dean, but of course the shack doesn’t have running water.  
  
Confused and in shock, Sam had brought them here a couple days ago, after he had researched, when it was apparent his brother’s stomach was going to keep swelling. There was only the urge to get far away from civilization, bring Dean somewhere where he could—  
  
Sam shakes his head, clenching his eyes shut. He’s thrown up enough the past few days.  
  
The shack is also near a lake, in case... Sam flicks more flesh off his clothes. In case they’re going to let the things in Dean’s belly _escape_?  
  
He looks at Dean’s stomach. It seems even bigger than it was an hour ago. _The gestation period is very short_ , Sam quotes to himself when he has a horrible thought of Dean’s belly getting to the point where it’d crush his organs, _offspring grow in their host within a few days_.  
  
Sam couldn’t find anything about the coma they’ve put Dean in. That gross stuff one shot into Sam’s mouth must’ve been a lower potency, because though he had slept through the ordeal, he had woken up the next morning. Dean hasn’t stirred since then.  
  
He’s still not sure if him and Dean had both been affected when they killed that tentacle monster a week ago, or if only Sam had been and somehow had passed it to Dean, or if that one morning Dean wouldn’t wake up, the tentacles had done something to him while they were asleep. The latter’s most likely, especially when Sam remembers Dean’s expression as he complained about the taste in his mouth.  
  
All this from a tentacle monster hunt that had been otherwise cut-and-dry.  
  
Sam gives Dean some water, massaging his throat till he swallows, and takes off his ruined clothes. He’d put something clean on from his duffel, but he’s not doing that until he takes a shower, until Dean—  
  
Sam swallows down bile and rests his eyes.  
  
When he wakes up, it’s dark and cold and Dean’s not next to him.  
  
Sam sits up in a panic, eyes just barely able to make out the corners of the room. “Dean?”  
  
He gets up and grabs the flashlight off the floor. He looks through the small shack and doesn’t find him. He opens the rickety door and steps outside. Impala still parked. Not caring he’s only in his skivvies, Sam starts looking. “Dean?”  
  
There’s a tangle of trees to the left. If Dean’s not around the shack, that’s the only place he could’ve gone. Only other option is the road.  
  
 _The lake_ , Sam thinks. He starts jogging through the trees, yelling for his brother. They need to kill those things, if only to stop them from doing to other people what the monster did to them.  
  
Sam hears thin wailing and follows the sound, pushing apart shrubs and lashing his bare feet in thorns. It sounds like a baby’s crying, and wouldn’t it be just their luck to get the shack with the forest demons?  
  
Sam comes to the lake. Dean is there, backlit blue by the moon. Sam rushes over and the pitch of the cries increases. Sam blinks several times down at Dean, then crashes onto his knees.  
  
“S’going on?” Dean asks, voice shivery. He’s shuddering from the cold, naked with the lake water at his ankles. “I just...”  
  
He doesn’t need to tell Sam what he just did, because Sam can see it now. There’s a human baby in Dean’s lap, ruddy and fussing, and another across his thighs. His belly is gone.  
  
Sam covers his mouth and starts shaking.  
  
“It—it—the thing, it—” Dean’s eyes are huge and seeping in horror. “Oh God, oh _God_.”  
  
Sam lets his hand drop, and reaches for the baby in Dean’s lap. Its head is full of matted brown hair and it’s still attached to Dean by the umbilical cord. Impossible. Impossible a real human baby could develop and be born that quick. Sam studies it, a boy, closely and doesn’t see any tentacles or places where tentacles could emerge.  
  
“What do we do?” Sam asks. “Dean, what the hell do we do?”  
  
“Maybe.” Dean looks at the lake and back to Sam.  
  
“It’s normal. He looks normal, Dean, and, this one—” Sam picks the other baby up, also a boy. A normal seeming, non-tentacled baby boy. “I think these are ours. I think all they got was me and you, and none of the...”  
  
“You know what happened? You were—I kept trying to wake you up but you wouldn’t,” Dean says, airy. Sam knows he’s in shock.  
  
“I put it together. It’s okay,” Sam adds, touching Dean’s bare shoulder. “It used us to breed. That’s what they do.”  
  
Dean’s eyes jump between Sam’s legs and Sam squeezes his shoulder. “I got rid of them.”  
  
“Salt.”  
  
“Yeah, salt. And a few rounds from a 12 gauge.” Sam smiles encouragingly. “Dean, you ready to head back?”  
  
“If it needed to breed, why’re the babies human?” Dean picks up one with trembling hands. “Shouldn’t I have had little tentacle babies?” Dean looks at him. “Must not’ve counted on your swimmers being faster.”  
  
They get back to the shack. Dean cuts the cords on both of them and Sam knifes the sheet from the bed into halves. He goes to bring the fabric to Dean and finds his brother sleeping on the rat-chewed couch. “Seriously? You slept the past three days.”  
  
He sighs and picks up the infants snugged to Dean’s chest. He puts one on the nearest table, flashlight in his mouth to see what he’s doing. He folds the sheet around the tiny body, mind going a mile a minute. Soon as the sun comes up he and Dean gotta get a room. One of them will have to stay with the babies while the other goes out and gets supplies, which Sam is penning out in his head. Diapers and formula at least, then they can decide what to do from there.  
  
“It’ll be better tomorrow,” Sam says to the baby when he’s finished.  
  
Tomorrow it’ll sink in, so maybe it won’t be better for him and Dean.  
  
Sam shines the flashlight over the infant’s face. It’s pale, almost sickly. Sam hopes that’s just from the cold. Soon as the other one’s swaddled he’ll put them back against Dean’s body heat.  
  
Under the light, the baby peels open his eyes. Sam frowns and looks closer: hazel or green?  
  
The eyes blink at Sam. They’re neither. Both eyes are filled with swampy grey and they’re _looking_ at Sam.  
  
Sam jumps back. The flashlight flings from his grip and smacks into the floor. He sits in the dark, listening to the batteries rumble over the wood.  
  
“Oh, Christ,” he whispers past his hand over his mouth.  
  
“Sam?”  
  
Sam closes his eyes. He can feel Dean and it looking at him.  
  
“Sam, everything all right?”  
  
The babies start to cry.


End file.
